Staring out at the wriggling surface of the dark water, he knotted his fists, squeezing his fingers into his palms as if he wanted to kill a tiny insect in each hand.
"The mushrooms, Belasko. Do you understand?" He whirled suddenly, waving a wild hand in a broad arc toward the mounds of ashes. Then, one long trembling finger extended, he pointed to the burial mound. "The stink that will never leave me. Not as long as Charles Harding and men like him, are free to walk the earth like decent human beings."
Bolan watched Colgan's face. Veins bulged at his tempo pies, and his eyes seemed to pulse blue light as they bored into the big guy.
"Do you know what it's like to be me, Belasko? I take human life, and I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake. A doctor... and I would throttle that man until his head snapped off like a dead flower. Me. A doctor..." He turned away again.
But the trembling finger still pointed its accusation, as if calling a jury's attention to a crucial fact it had overlooked.
But there was only Bolan to see, hear, and come to a conclusion.
12
Carlos was leaning against the jeep as Bolan made his way uphill. Colgan had wanted to stay behind for a moment, and Bolan understood. At the jeep he tried to engage Carlos in conversation, but the young man was anything but talkative. He gave polite, distant one-word answers, and after three tries, it was time to give up.
The sun beat down unmercifully, and Bolan wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead with a shirtsleeve. The insects seemed to be drawn to him, and hovered in small black clouds.
They buzzed distantly, swarmed in like Stukas, the buzz growing louder and louder, then veered off as he swatted at them, the noise fading again to a distant hum.
He kept thinking about what Marisa and Colgan had told him. The idea that a quasi-sanctioned American operation had been actively attempting to undermine the Aquino government would have seemed farfetched a few years ago. But the world had changed, and the rule of law was getting more than a little frayed around the edges.
Frustration appeared to make lawbreakers out of the best of men. Maybe it was to be expected.
Maybe it was even acceptable, but he didn't think so. A great deal could go wrong. The world was far too complicated to allow loose cannons to roll around. Somebody had to be in charge, and according to the Constitution, that man was the President.
Until further notice, anyway. The trouble was, too many people close to the President thought he ought to have more power than the Constitution gave him. So they did whatever they could to get him the result they knew he wanted. And to protect him, they lied about it. They lied to the President himself, to Congress, to the people, and most of them, Bolan knew, also lied to themselves.
But even if he took Colgan's words at face value, there were many unknowns. Who the hell was the man, anyway? Not New People's Army, clearly. And why would a rightwing paramilitary organisation, with U.S. funding and connivance of high-ranking Philippine Army officers, give a damn about him?
There was more to things than Colgan had told him that was for certain. And where did the man's money come from?
As Bolan mulled over the dozen mysteries, he watched Colgan climb the hill toward him, winding among the trees to appear for a moment, then vanish, only to appear again ten yards closer.
Colgan broke into the open and kicked at the grass as he climbed slowly toward the jeep. He heaved himself in and sat with his hands in his lap, staring at his feet. Bolan climbed over the back of the jeep and sat behind him. Carlos seemed unaware of anything as he finished puffing on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in long, thin streams through his nostrils. He fieldstripped the butt after a last, short drag, then got behind the wheel.
Carlos started the engine, took a sidelong glance at Colgan, then threw it in gear. They bounced through the ruts and up over the ridge. Carlos let the jeep coast down to ward the trees, then dropped a gear to navigate the narrow mouth of the lane leading back to the road.
"What exactly are you and what are you trying to do here, Mr. Colgan?" Bolan asked.
"I'm trying to be a rational alternative to violence, Mr. Belasko. That's what I am and what I believe, with every fiber of my being, is the only way for the Filipino people to drag themselves out of the poverty and the desolation that has held them down for three hundred years."
Bolan grunted. "Rather idealistic, don't you think?"
"Maybe. But I can't do it any other way. I came here for the first time twenty-five years ago, with the Peace Corps. I'll never forget it as long as I live. I went home at the end of my tour, and I thought I'd be happy if I never saw another case of leprosy, or another malnourished baby, for the rest of my life. But I was wrong. It haunted me, Belasko, it ate at me day and night. I knew about the NPA, and I knew that wasn't the way. Too many people have given their hearts and souls to grass-roots movements only to be betrayed by their leaders. It happened in Cuba, it happened in Nicaragua, in Ethiopia, in Angola. I knew it could happen here and I thought perhaps I could do something about it."
"And have you?"
"I think so. I'm proud of what we've accomplished in only five years."
"What have you accomplished?"
"We've built a dozen clinics for free medical care, not just on Luzon, but throughout the archipelago. More than fifty people have been put through school, and now they are working with us as lawyers, engineers and so on. We even have eleven doctors we have trained."
"And you think that can make a difference?"
"I know it can."
"In my experience, the only way to beat an extremist is to play by his rules. You have to be willing to do anything he's willing to do. Because if you're not, sooner or later he'll discover that fact, and the minute he does, he's won. He might as well have nuclear weapons. After all," Bolan said, shaking his head, "there has never been a moderate revolution."
"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Belasko. There was one."
"Oh, really?"
"The American revolution. There's never been anything like it. And I think it's high time we started teaching the rest of the world there is another way. Your philosophy only perpetrates the bloodshed, extends the killing through another generation. You don't teach people anything by shooting them, but you teach their children something."
"Then why do you have guns?"
"Because no matter what, I am still a realist." He turned and watched the trees go by.
Colgan seemed preoccupied as the jeep broke back into the open. Bolan studied him carefully.
There was something of the charlatan about the man, and something of the zealot. It almost seemed as if he weren't really in the same world. That Colgan had been genuinely moved by the visit was clear. But little else about him came even close to being transparent.
The sulking-hermit routine seemed to Bolan almost too pat, as if it had been carefully rehearsed until every second had been plotted with the exactness of science. It looked fine, until you looked closely. It was like a cheap tinfoil bell on a Christmas tree with the right lighting, it could be a crown jewel, but in the harsh light of day, one couldn't conceal just how tawdry it really was.
He wanted to push Colgan, but now wasn't the time. So soon after the theatrics, it would give the man an excuse to retreat behind wounded feelings. That he would be a marvel in that role was a certainty. Timing was everything, not only for Colgan, but for Bolan himself. And his gut told him something was askew. Only two possibilities suggested themselves. If Colgan was what he tried so hard to seem, then the man was mad. And if he was anything else, then he was, at the very least, a fraud. Neither choice boded well.